


One Revolution

by GuileandGall



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Battle, Brecilian Forest, Canon-Typical Violence, Darkspawn, F/M, Fluff, Injury, Kissing, Ogres, a day in the life, fireside chat, one day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:24:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuileandGall/pseuds/GuileandGall
Summary: A day in the life and travels of Cyna Mahariel, Warden of Ferelden.





	One Revolution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for #Fictober. Day 02: Under the sun and moon.

**-1-**

The sun shone through the leaves of the canopy, playing across paper thin flower petals and beaming through leaves like stained glass. The twitter of birdsong from a dozen different species fluttered on the breeze like so many wing beats of the singers. The peaty scent of the forest floor, rotting leaves, new shoots of grass, and animal aromas welcomed each footstep that brought the warden and her associates deeper into the Brecilian Forest. If anything in Thedas could be called a sanctuary, for Cyna Mahariel, this was it—this kind of day, in this kind of place. Even the company could be deemed enjoyable.

Her muscles tensed when the sweet music that filled the air fell silent. She, too, froze, keen eyes darting about the clearing below.

At the jangle of Alistair’s armor, her hand shot out and struck his chest, stilling him and serving to halt the others as well. Then she felt it—the telltale twist in her gut. _Darkspawn_ , she thought, casting a narrow-eyed glance at her fellow warden. The hint of a nod in his movement confirmed that he felt it as well.

The wardens knew they would be no hiding from the force. Wardens and darkspawn could feel one another’s presence. Sometimes it came as intuition, some thin thread pulling and guiding them toward one another. At others it felt like the way the ground would pull a falling body to the ground—inevitable, inescapable, palpable, and painful.

As the first screech rang out in the now still forest, a clatter echoed through the trees as several weapons were drawn. Alistair’s blade sang as he drew it from his sheath. The fistful of arrows whispered in comparison as Cyna pulled them from her quiver. Wynne’s staff cracked upon the ground as if it had found stone, lightning crackling across the clearing. Zevran, in contrast to them all, made nary a peep; his daggers were in hand and his footsteps carried him across the overgrown path in utter silence.

The string of her bow rebounded with each heartbeat as she and Wynne tried to control the mob of darkspawn from above. Alistair and Zevran set themselves at the foot of the path to deal with any creatures that might seek to approach the snipers from that direction.

A new sound shook the trees. Pounding steps thudded through the forest, approaching their position.

“Maker, what is that?” Alistair shouted.

Cyna made no reply. There were darkspawn in her sights to deal with. She couldn’t spare the thought for what approached as they still pushed forward. The last one fell not to her arrow, but to a dagger thrown by a smirking elf.

“Warden,” Wynne said in her calm tone, though worry wilted the edges of it.

The Dalish elf’s eyes skimmed the perimeter, her stomach twisting with every heavy footstep. Trees whined and cracked under the beast’s approach. She knew it could only be one thing. “Ogre,” she warned.

A great purplish-gray hand grasped the thick trunk of a tree and pushed it aside. It’s roots pulling from the ground filling the air with the scent of fresh turned earth, which mixed almost sickeningly with the rusty smell of blood and foul of death.

“Alistair,” Cyna yelled. “Keep its attention.”

“What?” he squawked back.

“Just keep it focused on you.” She drew another fistful of arrows, glancing down to take a quick inventory. _Yes, should be fine_ , she thought. “But don’t let it hit you.” They both knew one good swipe from the ogre’s long, meaty arms could leave Alistair out of commission for days. And that would not do them any good.

Alistair muttered something Cyna couldn’t decipher at this distance. She took aim, waiting for her fellow warden to enter the fray.

“Here, allow me, friend.” Zevran’s voice carried to her ears. As soon as the knife left his hands, the rogue all but vanished in a distracting flash that was followed by smoke. A distraction.

The blade sank into the soft neck of the ogre. Behind the massive darkspawn, others peeked out, adding their screeches to the cacophonous roar that pained her ears. The beast turned its face right toward Alistair, as had been intended. As it batted at the stinging bite upon its neck, the warrior dashed across the open expanse of delicate grasses and bashed its knee with his shield while taking a swipe at its Achille’s tendon with his sword. It barely broke the skin, which left Cyna free to target softer areas—once the other darkspawn were dealt with.

“Take out the smaller ones first,” Cyna told Wynne. “But keep your eye on Alistair.”

Zevran knew battlefields better than all of them perhaps. Throwing daggers buzzed through the air, and he moved with the skill and ease of a dancer on a stage. Though his dance was one of poison, blood, and gore. The screams his performance earned were not all adoration and praise, but the cries of the dying, of the failed.

Wynne’s hands wove with her staff, warding Alistair as the ogre reared back a heavy hand. When it swung at him, the young warden showed great skill and deftness of movement. He dodged out of the way, with a careful roll that brought him back to his feet. He made another swing at the heavy hide of the creature, shouting all the while to keep its focus on him rather than the archer or the assassin felling its comrades.

The din of dented metal, pulled Cyna’s attention back to the ogre as Alistair tumbled through the grass and against the trunk of a tree.

“I’m all right,” he called with a cough as he struggled to stand.

Wynne responded quickly. A swirl of white, like an ethereal spirit swirled around the warden, giving him a second wind.

“Try that again,” he challenged, bashing his shield with pommel of his sword. His battle cry curved Cyna’s mouth into a smile as he dashed at the creature again, dodging another punch meant to wind and wound him.

Taking aim at a hurlock at the edge of the forest, Cyna fired another shot that snag across the battlefield. Her arrow sank home into one eye socket as Zevran leapt from the bushes—both his daggers drove home into the beast’s back, crumpling it to the ground. The Antivan even found a moment to give Cyna a wink before darting off for the brute that now found itself alone.

The wardens and their compatriots managed to down the beast, though not without injury of their own. Of course, from Cyna’s perspective the injury to the forest was far greater. The lush green grasses which met darkspawn blood faded as if the life had been ravaged from them. Great black puddles of it oozed back into the earth, seemingly sucking every iota of life there.

The trees upended by the ogre’s trek through the forest and those he’d tossed at his attackers in desperation lay strewn about the clearing and along the path the darkspawn took from the cave they spilled from. While Wynne insisted upon treating contusions immediately, Cyna’s eyes surveyed the damage to the wilderness. It made her heart ache, made her wish to never visit here again if it could keep the darkspawn far from places like this. Of course, in the deepest reaches of her soul, she knew that wouldn’t help. They’d find their way to places like this whether a warden’s blood drew them or not.

 

**-2-**

After dinner, thankfully Cyna’s night to prepare, the warden’s companions decompressed from the battles of the day. Each eventually traded the comradery of the fireside for the comfort of their tents and bedrolls, such as it was.

Finding herself alone, the warden leaned against a sizeable boulder, which allowed her to recline enough to peek at the bright stars glittering just beyond the breaks in the canopy. The Brecilian Forest felt so familiar and foreign at the same time. The calls of insects, the snap of twigs under the feet of scurrying nocturnal gatherers, the occasional hoot of an owl letting all around know it was awake and ready for a night’s hunt—all these sounds, familiar to her ear were a welcome change to the chatter and bustle of the towns.

One could find calm in these woods, a calm she never seemed to find in Denerim or even Redcliffe. Something rustled to her left, the smell of leather and spices made her lips curl upward.

“Zevran,” she said quietly in greeting.

“What are we doing, my dear warden?” he asked in that lilting tone of his. She could almost see the licentious twist of his mouth when he called her warden.

“Listening, my talented rogue.”

There was a gentle hum added to the sounds of the night, his content hum. He liked being appreciated for any and _all_ of his talents. “Are we … listening for something in particular?”

Cyna’s chin dipped and she turned to find his gaze upon her, though that wasn’t a surprise. “Everything,” she said with a smile.

“Oh.” They stared at one another. Then his smile broadened. “That is quite the endeavor. Should I keep a list for us?”

Her serious countenance faded, a smile breaking the serious facade and showing off her teeth. “I don’t think we have the ink for that,” she said with a chuckle in her tone. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

She gave him a skeptical glance. “Even after that backhand from the ogre?”

“Ah, that was nothing,” he said, waving away the thought.

Despite her feelings on the matter, she let it go at that, choosing not to push. If he said he was fine, she would take his word at face value. After all, she’d come to trust Zevran with more than her life. She now trusted him with her friends’ lives, and even with some of her secrets. She leaned back against the rock, finding the stars once more. Her hand swept the tufts of the short grasses, letting them tickle her palm, until her fingers found something warm and surprisingly smooth. When her hand rested atop his, another soft hum joined the sounds of the night in the forest.

“Is this much like the places you grew up?” he asked, his voice quiet and serious.

“Yes. In fact, we were not far from here where … I was conscripted.” Cyna did not expound on that event, and Zevran did not push. He knew she preferred not to talk about it.

“Is this the only forest you’ve visited?”

Cyna’s laugh was warm and quiet, not wanting to disturb any of the wildlife that might be creeping close to the camp. “Far from it. Though he had visited this particular wood several times. I felt I knew it well, but I realize now that even the places you know can harbor dark secrets—some of which are best left untouched.”

His hand turned beneath hers and laced their fingers. “My dear warden that is true of _every_ place—wild or civilized. It can be true of people as well.”

Her vibrant green gaze found his warm eyes again. She could only guess that he meant himself, though the statement aptly applied to both of them in equal measure. The shift in her body went almost unnoticed, until she closed the distance between them. As her hand brushed at a hint of bare skin at the open neck of his blouse, his hand skimmed her cheek, encouraging the move she’d started to make; perhaps even silently praying she wouldn’t pull away in better judgement.

When her lips brushed his, Zevran’s fingers dipped into her inky, black hair, fastening them in the silken strand of night to keep her close. The soft peck deepened quickly, as their kisses were apt to do. Their clasped hands released finally, but only once she’d invaded his lap, which made him chuckle.

“I thought it was our watch,” Zevran teased, letting out a low moan when Cyna nipped his neck.

“You are,” she replied, gliding the tip of her nose along his skin until she could look into his warm, golden eyes once more. “But if you cannot maintain your keen senses amidst the distraction of a mere woman …?”

Zevran’s hearty chuckle rumbled through his chest, vibrating down her spine. “You, Cyna Mahariel, are no _mere_ anything,” he told her, pulling her lips back toward his. “But if you wish me to prove my self-control. I will make myself a model of it, but only for you.”

Cyna smiled and kissed him once more as his arms wrapped around her waist. She had no doubt that he’d prove himself. Zevran always did show her the best of himself, even when it wasn’t evident to everyone else.


End file.
